The man drove swiftly through the half-empty streets. With a little gasp of relief Lavendale recognized his own car waiting in the courtyard. Without a pause, however, he pushed open the swing doors of the Court and leaned over the counter towards the night porter.
'What is Madame Félanie's number?' he asked.
'Sixty-four, sir,' the man replied, glancing dubiously at Lavendale. 'Monsieur Anders is up there now, however.'
Lavendale stepped into the lift, ascended to the third floor, hurried down the dimly-lit corridor and paused outside the door of number sixty-four. He listened for a moment. Inside he could hear voices. Then he pressed the bell. There was a moment's hesitation, then Anders' voice speaking in French.
'Lenwade, perhaps.'
He heard Félanie's scornful little laugh, the flutter of her garments as she crossed the room. The door was suddenly opened and she stood there, looking out at him. She gazed at this unexpected visitor and the colour slowly faded from her cheeks and the light from her eyes. Lavendale made his way firmly across the threshold and closed the door. Félanie caught at her throat.
'What do you want here, sir?' Anders demanded.
Lavendale pushed them both back into the sitting-room. There was an ugly look in the man's face, but Félanie's courage seemed to have deserted her. She clutched at the air for a moment and sank into an easy-chair, hiding her face amongst the cushions. Lavendale's hand fell firmly upon the loose sheets of paper strewn over the table.
'These are what I have come for,' he announced, collecting them and thrusting them into his pocket. 'I presume you have had no time to make a copy?'
He glanced searchingly around the apartment. It was obvious that nothing of the sort had been attempted. Anders stole slowly back towards the writing-table, his hand was upon the knob of one of the drawers, but Lavendale suddenly gripped him by the coat collar and swung him almost off his feet.